Idols
by Mickey3
Summary: A tragic accident turns a man against mutants. What happens when he learns that his children's idol is a mutant?


**Idols  
By Mickey**

Disclaimer: The TCP concept is Kielle's. The characters, for the most part, are mine. The universe is Marvel's.

Notes: This is my second attempt at writing a TCP, and my first attempt (at the time this fic was started, though I have written a few since then) at writing from a first person perspective. The X-Men, particularly Cyclops, are mentioned often but don't actually appear in the story. The idea for this fic actually came to me shortly after I finished writing 'Broken Promises', it's just taken me a while to finally sit down and write it. I was sitting at my computer thinking about the roles parents and other people play in the lives of children and this fic just kinda popped into my head. Enjoy.

This story was almost six _years_ in the making, but it is finally done!

Many thanks to my beta reader, Linda!

Started: 6/01

Finished: 3/06/07

Word Count: 4,438

* * *

I hate mutants. 

I have for three years now. Ever since one killed my wife and unborn child. My anger only grew when a few months ago, I learned that my ten-year-old daughter's and seven-year-old son's idol is one of those filthy bastards.

All kids have idols. Mine was my father. He was good cop and a good man who provided for his family. He's why I became a fourth generation cop. He taught me many lessons before he died at the age thirty-eight. Gunned down by a man who decided he wanted to kill himself a cop.

My father taught me to never judge a person by the color of his skin, his religion, or his sexual preference. He caught a lot of flak from a lot of people for his views. Black or white, Christian, Jew, or Hindu, gay or straight, those things didn't matter. He never really, I guess, agreed is the word I'm looking for, with homosexuality. He said he thought that it wasn't natural, but if that was the life a person chose for them self then no man had a right to judge him or her based solely on that decision. He told me that a person should be judged by more important things. For example, was he/she a good neighbor, an honest person, a hard worker? You get my drift. He taught me that hard work and honesty were two of the most important things in life. He also taught me that it was okay to accept a hand-up, but never a handout. I've always tried to set the same example for my own children.

I wonder what he would think of mutants if he was alive now. After all, they aren't really human, are they? I wonder what he would think of the things I've said about them, and what I've taught my children to think of them.

Back to the subject. I've always believed that parents should be role models for their children. I've taught my children the lessons my father taught me with one exception. After my beloved Meg was murdered by one of those mutie freaks, I told them to stay the hell away from mutants.

Huh? Oh, you want to know how she died. Well, Meg was on her way to her doctor's appointment. Did I tell you she was pregnant? She was six months along when she died. Everything I'm about to tell you comes from the police report and witness' statements. She was about ten minutes from the office when someone ran in front of the car, stopped, and started glowing, a bright, blinding, neon blue. Meg lost control of the car and slammed head-on into a tree at about fifty miles an hour. Meg died in route to the hospital. The baby, my little boy, died twenty-three minutes after being delivered by emergency cesarean section. Three days later I buried Megan Louise and Joshua Adam Jackson.

I talked to a few of the people who saw it. One even said the kid looked frightened as the car came towards him. He had the "deer in the headlights look", the guy said. Bullshit I say. That little freak didn't even get a scratch on him. All three people I talked to said the guy was quick, jumped to the side and the car didn't even graze him as it crashed into the tree. They arrested him two days later and charged him with manslaughter. I wanted him charged with murder, but the cops said they couldn't do that. At least the DA agreed to try him as an adult, not a juvenile. He got eight years in prison with the possibility of parole after one year. Every year I go to the hearing and testify against him. So far, the parole board has listened to me. In five years, though, he'll be free. My wife and son will still be dead.

Have you ever tried to explain to a seven and four-year-old why they'll never get to meet their new baby brother?

Or worse yet, have you ever tried to explain to them why their Mommy will never come home again. Kids don't understand death like adults do. Two days after the funeral my son, Scott, asked me when Mommy was coming back from Heaven. It broke my heart to explain to him that, once you went to Heaven you never came back.

After the funeral, I had several talks with my children about how dangerous mutants were. Imagine my surprise when, three months ago, I got a call from my daughter's English teacher. She'd asked the class to write an essay describing their hero and why that person was their hero. My daughter chose a man who shot red beams out of his eyes, ran around wearing blue and yellow spandex (obviously the colors were chosen by someone who didn't realize that yellow and blue should _not_ be put together), and called himself Cyclops. I'd seen the guy on TV before, so I knew who he was. I'd never really had much of an opinion about him before.

At first I was angry; I told that teacher that this was not my idea of a joke. She said she wasn't joking and asked me to come to the school. This teacher has given my daughter trouble in the past, so I went to see her with the assumption she was trying to do it again. She handed me Megan's paper (yes, I named my daughter after my wife. If men can name their son's after themselves, then I can name my daughter after her mother. Took three months to get Meg to agree.), and I was downright furious. While most reports done by ten-year-olds are usually not more than a page or two long, my daughters was at least six pages and had a cover! The cover page of the paper read: Cyclops; A Real American Hero by Megan Elizabeth Jackson. There was a picture of Cyclops taped underneath her name. I didn't even open it. I stood up, thanked the teacher for telling me about the problem, assured her Megan would pick a more suitable subject and re-do the assignment. Then I stormed out of her office before she could say another word.

Megan and Scott got home just as I did. I sent Scott to his room and told Megan to sit on the couch. She looked confused and scared, she'd never seen me so angry before, but she sat down. "What in the hell were you thinking", I yelled as I slammed the paper down on the coffee table in front of her. She jumped back a little, then leaned forward, and picked up the paper.

"He is a hero." she insisted. "Read it and you'll see that. He helps people. I'll bet Mrs. Peterson didn't even read it. I bet you didn't either," she accused.

My anger grew at that. "Damn straight I didn't read it!" I yelled. "That freak is not a hero! He's a monster, Megan, a murdering monster. Just like the freak that killed your mother and brother." As she stared at me, I could see the tears.

"He is not a monster," she yelled. "He's a hero. Look," she opened the report and turned to the next to last page. Taped to it was a newspaper article I vaguely remembered seeing about a year back in the New York Times. It showed Cyclops, costume charred in spots, standing outside the burning remains of a house and handing a small child to a waiting fireman. If I remember correctly, he cleared a path through the fire with his eye beam laser thingies.

That's what the picture showed, but that's not what I saw. I grabbed the report from her hand, threw it in the fireplace, and lit the fire. The tears flooded down Megan's checks as the report burst into flames. "There will be no more talk of that monster being a hero in this house young lady." I told her. "Do you understand me?" She glared at me (God how she reminds me of her mother) but said nothing. Then she ran sobbing to her room.

Two days later she came down for breakfast and wordlessly put her new report in front of me. She still wasn't talking to me. She chose John F. Kennedy this time. That was more like it. There was a man who knew how to run a country. I read it quickly. Even though she does admire the man, I could tell she hadn't put in the effort she that she had on the first report, but this one was still good. I put the report aside and we ate in silence. I thought that had put an end to all that "Cyclops is a hero" nonsense. I should have known better.

A few days ago, I got home a little late from work because of traffic. Megan and Scott were already home. Megan, I assumed, was in her room. Scotty was sitting cross-legged on the floor watching the TV. The news was on, which puzzled me. Scott always watched cartoons after school. He hates the news. I became angry when I saw that Cyclops character on the screen and heard _my boy_ cheering him on. Infuriated, I walked over to the TV to turn it off and saw the red sunglasses covering my son's eyes. Well that did it. TV forgotten, I grabbed his arm, yanking him to his feet a little rougher than I'd intended to. He winced in pain and tears started to form, but I was too angry to care. "What the _sam hell_ do you think you're doing boy", I screamed at him as I yanked the glasses off his face. I threw them to the floor and stepped on them, grinding the heel of my shoe into them. "What have I told you about that freak?"

By that time, Scotty looked absolutely terrified. He didn't even try to stop the tears flowing down his face. "I'm s-s-s-sorry, Daddy!" he stuttered. "I-I-I was ju-just. . . H-H-He seems n-n-n-nice. I don't t-think he's a b-b-bad m-man. H-he helps people."

I saw red. Before I even realized what I was doing, my hand was raised, and I slapped him in the face as I screamed, "He is not a man!"

We both stood in stunned silence. Before that day, I had never so much as raised a hand to either of my children. My anger faded at the expression on my little boy's face. Not enough to apologize to him though. "Go to your room, now." I told him. He glared at me for a moment. For the first time, I saw hatred in my sweet little boy's eyes. He said nothing and, after a few seconds, he ran up to his room as fast as his seven year-old legs could carry him.

He didn't come down for dinner that night. I didn't call him down. I was still too angry to go up and talk to him. He must have told Megan what happened. If looks could kill I would have been dead several times over from the glare she threw me as we sat down to eat. She didn't say a word to me throughout the meal or afterwards. Once dinner was done, she cleared the table, did the dishes, and then stormed up to her room.

I really, really regret hitting him. He's such a sensitive kid. He's tough as nails if he hurts himself, rarely cries about it, but he cries at the drop of a hat if he thinks he did something to make someone hate him or get angry with him. God, I screwed up. I think he really hates me now. That was four days ago and he still looks nervous whenever he sees me. I gave him a weak apology for the slap and grounded him from watching TV for a week. I think he's still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Though my anger had faded after a few days, it was still there. Last night, a few minutes before bedtime, I went up to make sure that they had brushed their teeth and had their pajamas on. I stopped in front of Megan's closed door and raised my fist to knock. My fist paused in mid-air as I heard Scott's voice.

"He does hate me, Megan. He won't even look at me anymore! He used to tell me stories about him and Poppop before I went to bed. Now he doesn't even come in to say goodnight. Why doesn't he love me anymore!" I could hear him sobbing as he finished.

"He does love you. He's just mad right now. No matter what you do or say, he'll always love you, Scott. Even if he doesn't say it. He'll come around soon. You'll see. We just have to make him understand, that's all. Someday we'll make him see what a hero Cyclops is."

Still with the damn hero talk! Angry as I was, I didn't dare go in. I was too afraid I would say or do something I would seriously regret later. I slipped quietly down the stairs and poured myself a nice stiff, _large_ drink.

I've only talked to them when it was absolutely necessary these last few days. My anger begins to surge again now, as I dwell on these past few months. That damn freak has never even met my children. How in God's name did he get such a hold over them? They've never disobeyed me as often or as severely in their entire lives as they have the past three months. Haven't they listened to a word I've said since their mother and brother died?

They dress and eat their breakfast quickly this morning and are out the door by the time I've managed to stumble into the kitchen for my "must have" morning cup of coffee. I sip the hot liquid quietly. After a few minutes, my stomach rumbles and I make myself a pack of Scotty's S'Mores Pop Tarts. I eat them quickly. I'm off today and I have a lot to do before the kids get home from school. I eat quickly and put my dishes in the sink.

Next stop, the laundry room. I quickly move the clothes I'd washed last night out of the washer and put them in the dryer. Once that is started, I put another load in the washer and head off to the den. The bills are paid, the bill book updated, and the checkbook balanced in no time. I take a few minutes to watch the morning news report as I straighten up the living room. I finish just as the dryer stops. The washer finishes as I enter the laundry room. I fold the dry clothes and put them in a laundry basket, then take the load from the washer and put the damp clothes into the dryer.

I pick up the basket of clothes I've just folded and take it upstairs. I deposit Megan's clothes on her bed then walk down the hall to Scott's room. I put his clothes on his bed and turn to leave. I'm right at the door when something on his desk catches my eye.

There are several pieces of papers stacked in a haphazard pile. They're drawings. The first is of the neighbor's dog, Nala. One day I really need to get the boy his own dog. He wants one so badly. The second is of a dragon. I smile and am about to put them down when I see part of the third picture. It, and the fourth picture are of that damn mutie. The last is of a man with red sunglasses. This one has a name written on it: Scott Summers. It looks remarkable like the spandex clad freak. Does he really think that lame getup hides his identity?

Realization hits me like a physical blow. I exhale sharply. Christ! They have the same first name! No wonder Scott likes the mutie so much. I don't know how he knows the freak's name; I didn't think I had ever heard them say it on the news. Then it hits me, Summers was at some kind of conference on genetic mutations with a bald headed man in a wheel chair. Professor something or other. I can't remember his name, but I remember seeing it on the news. The pictures are amazingly well done. I never realized my boy had such a talent for drawing. That doesn't lessen my anger or disappointment at his choice of subjects. I grasp the pictures tightly as I storm back to Megan's room. I'm sure I'll find more trash like this in her room as well.

I'm not careful as I yank out drawers and rummage through them. There's nothing in her dresser or nightstand. That doesn't deter me. I dig though her closet next.

I knew it! All the way in the back on the right is a box. She obviously put all her "Cyclops is a hero" crap in the box then hid it in the closet so I wouldn't see it. I pull it out and tuck it under my arm. Muttering curses I would never say within earshot of my kids I almost run down the stairs. I sit on the couch, slam the crumpled pictures on the coffee table, and empty the contents of the box on top of them.

There are a lot of newspaper clippings and magazine articles in the box. I gently put aside the one about Meg's death. There are several about a few of her favorite actors. Towards the bottom of the pile I find what I was looking for. There are at least a dozen articles about the mutie. I'm about to get up and chuck them and Scott's drawings in the fire when one of them catches my attention. Summers is lying in the street clutching his head. Blood covers the left side of his face and a small puddle has formed on the ground. The title reads: 'X-Man Cyclops Protects Young Boy'. I read through the article then move on to the next one.

I feel some of my anger drain as I read through them. Most of the articles are about Cyclops. A few are about the X-Men as a group or individuals. A girl who can walk through walls that saved a man from a collapsing building by "phasing" him into the basement. An "Ice man" who saved a young couple's diner by putting out a fire caused by a careless customer. I don't know what to think. There are a few are about other mutants. One shows a little girl no older than Megan. She was attacked and killed by a group of teenagers on her way home from school. Her mutation? She had bright orange hair and eyes. Another told of a teenage boy who would never have any powers or show any physical signs of being a mutant, but had been nearly beaten to death by his father. His great crime? He carried the mutant gene. The next showed a middle-aged woman who had saved the life of a young woman trapped in an overturned car. The older woman had lifted the car like it was a feather. With her bare hands. Yet another story showed a young man, just twenty-three years old, murdered because he had an IQ that would have put Einstein to shame three times over and could move things with his mind.

What if he could have discovered a cure for AIDS or cancer, or discovered a way to end world hunger? We'll never know now.

Could I have been wrong about mutants? Are some, maybe even most, of them just average Joes just trying to raise their kids and live their lives in peace like the rest of us?

A reporter comes on TV and I look up to hear the report. I stare in shock as she reports that Cyclops, the leader of the X-Men, is dead. Some nut case with a gun had suddenly opened fire on patrons of a restaurant. Scott and two friends, Bobby Drake and Sean Cassidy were in the restaurant at the time. I listen in stunned silence. I'd heard about the shooting when it had happened three days ago, but I hadn't paid much attention to it. The reporter tells how Summers had ran and thrown himself at a young woman holding a small child, knocking them out of the gunman's line of fire. He was hit three times in the back. He died late last night from complications after surgery.

The scene shifts to the entrance of a hospital and a beautiful red-haired woman standing behind a microphone filled podium. Her name is Jean Grey Summers. Oh man. She was his wife. She talks about the shooting and her husband's death. Then she talks about his life. I'm drawn to her voice. I can't stop listening, even if I wanted to. Then comes the most devastating news. The woman, no, _Jean's_ eyes well with tears.

She's pregnant. Scott Summers will never even get to meet his kid.

How am I going to explain this to my kids? How do I tell them their hero is dead? It's going to break their hearts.

**EPILOGUE**

It's been eight months since I saw that report on the news. The X-Men have been in the news a lot more since Scott Summers died. Apparently, it was something he'd wanted. He'd decided it was time for the X-Men to make themselves available to reporters, and the public in general. He wanted people to see that not all mutants are evil, murdering monsters. Since the report of his death, public opinion had become more favorable towards mutants, not much more, but it was a start. It's too bad he was murdered before he got to see his dream taking those first baby steps towards coming true. The woman, Jean, had her baby two months ago. A little boy with bright blue eyes and dark brown hair. Looks a lot like his dad. I can't help but feel sorry for the kid. From the news reports and articles I've read, I can tell the child will be well taken care of and will have the love of a lot of "aunts" and "uncles" but they won't replace the father he lost.

The bald headed man, Professor Xavier, (I believe that's what they said his name is), is holding up a picture of the smiling baby. Megan "ooohs" and "ahhhs" over the picture. The professor is beaming like a proud grandfather even though he's no blood relation to the baby. It's obvious he was something of a father figure to the kid's father.

"He's adorable!"

That he is. I shut off the television just as Scott comes barreling down the stairs and into the living room.

"Hey!" He protests. "I wanted to see the baby."

"You should have gotten dressed when I told you to instead of playing around." Megan chastises him. He's pouting now.

"They'll replay it tonight." I reassure him as I straighten his tie and ruffle his hair.

I'm still not entirely past my anger and hatred of mutants, but I've come a long way these past few months. My kids and I have had many long talks about Scott Summers' death and mutants in general. I give an approving smile at Megan's outfit and load the kids into the car.

Today, I'll be taking a big step towards healing the wound that has been festering in my heart for almost four years. We're heading for the prison. For the past two years, I've argued that the mutant convicted for my wife's death should never get out. Today, I'm going for a different reason. This time, I'm going to recommend the release of a boy, a man now, who shouldn't have been there in the first place.

Two hours later we're sitting in a small room waiting for the boy to be brought in. We turn as one to look as the mutant is brought in. He's about twenty-one now, but he still looks so very much like the frightened boy he was when this all started. Of course, that isn't how I'd seen it at the time.

The defense lawyer has his say then the parole board asks if anyone has anything to say. I stand. "I do." I know what they expect me to say. It's written clearly across their faces. Well, they're in for a surprise. I walk to the front of the courtroom.

"For the last three years I've been here arguing against the release of this mutant. I've told you what a monster and a murderer he is." I pause for a moment. "Now, I've come to argue for his release and to ask his forgiveness for my part in his unjust incarceration."

I give the young man a small smile; he stares back in open-mouthed shock.

"I've allowed my grief and anger at the death of my wife and unborn child to over ride my good sense and better judgment. What happened to Megan was not his fault. He was just a scared kid running to save his life. The fact is if anyone is to blame, it's the boys who were chasing this young man. If they hadn't tried to hurt him because of something he has no control over, the accident wouldn't have happened and my wife and son would be alive today. We have done this boy, and the judicial system, a grave injustice by keeping him in jail. He never should have been there in the first place. There never should have been a trial. It's time to let this young man get on with his life."

I walk over to the young man whose name is Kevin, and place a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry if what I've said these past two years has had any part in keeping you in jail. I hope you can forgive me for that and I sincerely hope they decide to release you today. It wasn't your fault. I know that now."

He still looks dumfounded. He says nothing, but does give me a small smile and a nod. I drop my hand and walk back to my children. I put an arm around each of them and hold them close as we wait to hear the parole boards' decision.

_THE END_


End file.
